


Lethallin

by jillyfae



Series: together we are stronger than the one [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Haven
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 15:30:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3493511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/pseuds/jillyfae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On welcomes, and grief, and friendship; on what might have been, and what isn't, and the warm smell of bread at dinner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lethallin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yarnandtea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarnandtea/gifts).



"Welcome to Haven, Dorian." I cannot help but smile at him, though it ought to look ridiculous, the exaggerated sweep of his arms and the depth of his bow a touch too low to be anything other than mocking. 

Himself, mostly. That's probably why it's oddly endearing. 

"And such a welcome you provide, my dear Herald." His hand flicks to the side, a disdainful lift of his eyebrows enough to make me cough, half resignation, half amusement. "Are we truly sitting on _crates_ still damp from the _snow_ for our dinner? I am mortified by such service, I'll have you know." 

He sits adroitly enough, and thanks Flissa's servers quite prettily for his bowl of stew and hunk of crusty bread, however, and my smile refuses to fade. He can't quite stop himself from holding the rough pottery up beneath his face and inhaling the steam, and I might be tempted to laugh but I do the same to the bread, every time they give me a piece still warm from the ovens. 

There is some benefit to being stuck with a bunch of settled _shem'len;_ it is not possible to bake in an _aravel._

"How did you make it to Redcliffe by yourself?" I ask after we've both managed a few too hot bites to curb the chill and the hunger. "You seem to have trouble with things like ... weather." 

"But there are _inns_ , my dear, and they don't care what my accent is, as long as I have the coin to pay them." His smirk curves, so painfully sarcastic my smile widens. "More than they are worth, I must admit, but such hardships we must endure, sometimes. 

"Besides," he leans forward as I shake my head at him, fingers still curled around my bread, saving it for last. "I had trade roads. Nothing exciting in my travels, unlike you! Walking free from the Conclave through the Fade itself, standing tall and alone, touched by the very prophet Herself to save us all." 

There's a question in there beneath the overblown rhetoric, about their Andraste, perhaps, and that same soft disturbing hint of his faith in me, though I am forced to admit I feel much the same for him, after our impossible trip to the future together, and more unlikely journey back. 

I can't answer it, even if I knew for sure what it was, my throat too tight as I stare down into my stew, as my fingers loosen enough my bread slides down into the puddle of snow melting off my boots. "But you forget, or no, you don't know, up in Tevinter." My voice is soft, but not so soft he can't hear me, I know, I can feel him listening, so much focus behind his brash words, "the Dalish never travel alone." 

"Ah," he sighs, and I force myself to lift my head, to look at a face gone shockingly still and quiet, considering how mobile it had been but a moment ago. "My condolences." 

"Thank you." I blink, ignore the burning in my eyes. It had been long enough I should not still need to cry. Certainly not in front of an arrogant Tevinter noble who I barely knew. And yet. No one else had ever said a thing, much less offered such simple sincerity. 

"By the time I," I shrug, trying to figure out how to encompass my comas, my chains, that fight up to the Breach with a suspicious Cassandra watching my every move. "By the time I knew what had happened, they'd collected all the bodies, _burned them_. I couldn't even ..." 

_Stolen from our Creators and given to the their maker, with no chance for escape. No strong-rooted trees up here to plant them under. No way to save their souls, after I'd failed to save their lives._

"I don't even know how they died." 

"Yet another way in which my services will be invaluable, then." I cough, not sure if I'm laughing or crying this time, as his voice lifts, loud and clear again, though he spares a quick soft wink at me before spreading his hands wide, almost splashing stew over his fingers. "I am excellent at finding out other people's little secrets." 

"I doubt the creation of the Breach is a _little_ secret _,_ " I manage, my voice rough but even enough as I follow along the escape route he's opened up for me. 

"Same principle." He clicks his tongue and brings his bowl back towards his chest. "They don't stand a chance against us. Well, they don't stand a chance against _me,_ and I'm helping _you,_ so it all works out, doesn't it?" 

"I suppose it does." 

"Of course." He grins, and it is small and weak, but perhaps my smile is finding its way back to me. The silence between us is oddly comfortable, as we both turn our attention back to eating. 

" _Da'len._ " I lift my head from my contemplation of the poor grey-tinged crust I'd dropped on the floor, all set to remind Solas that I am certainly not his _little one,_ but he is holding out an extra piece of bread, warm enough he is carefully gripping it with just the tips of his fingers, and I suppose I do rather deserve it. Even if the lift of his chin is a touch smug. 

"Thank you," I reply with as much dignity as I can muster, and then ruin it by holding the bread under my nose to inhale the scent as soon as it is mine. 

"Of course." Solas nods, and sits beside me, and I hear a familiar chuckle and a sigh as Varric appears on the crate beside him, placing his Bianca carefully at his feet. 

The knot in my chest eases, a little, though I'm not sure I remember what it feels like not have the ache of exhaustion deep in my bones, and I cup my bread and watch the crowds shift around us; a runner piling a tray with three servings before ducking out the door; Sera's head thrown back with a laugh, Blackwall beside her, his shoulders shifting with a chuckle of his own; Krem and Bull toasting something together, though the shudders after they down their drinks imply a questionable choice of liquor; Cassandra dragging Cullen towards the stew-pot, though he gestures back towards the door with every other step, clearly attempting to work through dinner again. 

They are odd, these _shem,_ which most definitely includes Sera and Varric, though not Solas, even if he clearly isn't remotely Dalish either ... I'm not sure what that makes Solas, but as I catch his gaze over the rim of his bowl he nods, just a little, and I nod back my thanks again before finally taking a bite of my bread. Still warm. 

I am glad he's here, whatever he is. 

Whatever all of them are. 

I'm still chewing, slowly, and I shift the bread between my fingers 'til one hand is free, and it presses against a lingering ache in my breastbone, and I glance at Solas again, at Blackwall. 

I remember red in their eyes, beneath their skin, terrible echoes in their voices. 

I remember them dying, for me, for themselves, for the very world, and yet. Here they are. Eating stew that's been thinned too much to really deserve the name. 

_Feeding me bread when I lose my own._

I watch Blackwall, shaking his head at something Sera said; probably too vulgar to respond to in any other way. He lifts his head, as if he can tell someone's watching, and he looks right at me, though I can't tell what he's thinking, not from this distance, not with that beard hiding half his face. 

I press harder against my chest, swallowing a sigh, a grunt, a ... something. My throat burns, but I cannot seem to move until he does, his head turning as Sera steals his drink. 

I drop my chin and stare down at my last bit of bread, but cannot figure out if I want it, or how to eat it. I give up, after a few too many breaths, and drop it into the bottom of my bowl. It will at least be easier to clean up than the last one. 

Is it terrible, how relieved I am that I did not have to add their names to the ones already gone? That their deaths did not stay true? 

I close my eyes. 

That won't stop them from joining my nightmares, I'm sure, tangled up in all the ways I can imagine Canaral and Ithel calling for me, _needing me_ , dying without me. 

So many possible ways to die. 

So many of them so terrible. 

And I don't know. I don't _remember._ Can't tell Keeper Deshanna ... anything. Nothing to ease the loss of Hunter and Second, nothing to explain how I failed her. 

Can't tell myself anything, when I wake, can't tell what might be true, what might not. Will never know if I could have saved them, why I didn't. 

_How dare I save myself, and not them._

I feel the pressure build behind my eyelids, am afraid to breathe, to stand, cannot believe I am so close to losing control here, of all places, where all of Haven can see me, can judge the Dalish they don't want, the Herald they are terrified they need, _liar or spy or saint,_ no one seems able to decide. 

No one seems to believe how much simpler it is than any of that. 

I just don't want more people to die. 

"Lady Lavellan," I swallow at that voice, tangible weight against my skin, my bones, rising up from deep in a broad chest. He'd accepted what I'd said, about not wanting to watch the world break into pieces. I squeeze my eyes tighter, tilt my head closer to that voice in front of me, and open my eyes. 

He does not smile much, Blackwall, but he softens, sometimes, just enough I can see it in the line of his cheeks and brow. It's a different sort of ache, to see that softness aimed at me. 

"It's been a long few days," he nods, almost a bow again, though his is small and eloquent in a completely different way than Dorian's grand affectations. 

"Twice as long for some of us," Dorian's voice is quieter this time, but sharp, sharp enough to cut, if someone cared to be wounded. Blackwall quite emphatically ignores him. 

"Ah, let the man walk her up the hill before she falls asleep and slides off her crate, Sparkler." Varric grumbles softly, yet his voice carries clearly underneath the low-level hum of the pub. I'm not sure how he does it, but it does make his company easier. "If you're so desperate for an escort, I'm sure we can ask Tiny to throw you over his shoulder and cart you to your room." 

"Do I even _have_ a room? I don't think your War Council knows quite what to do with me." 

I ignore the lift of Dorian's voice, Varric's continuing low-toned teasing, and blink at Blackwall. 

There is a slight shift in his shoulders, an uneven, almost awkward shrug. My face must answer him somehow, though I'm not sure precisely what it does, because there is a hint of a smile now, and he holds his hand out. 

I place my hand in his, and he braces more than pulls, lets me lift myself at my own slow pace. There is a breath between us after I am standing before him; his hand is twice as broad as mine, his chest more than that; he must outweigh me three times, at least, though he is not so very much taller; it is only after I sigh that he lets go of my hand. 

I have only a moment to wonder if I miss the soft clasp of leather gloves covering my skin before he offers me his arm instead, and I duck my head and take it, and we turn towards the door. 

" _Tel'enera-ma, lethallan._ " 

I look back at Solas, his eyes shadowed and his face calm, and I wonder at how much he sees, that he knows to wish me a dreamless sleep. I wonder at how much it means, that my chest burns as he recognizes me as something like his Clan, if he had one. 

" _Ma serannas, lethallin._ " There is no other possible answer. I do not think I will ever stop being grateful for him, and everything he has done. 

I do not think I will ever forget the way his eyes lighten as he smiles, small and hidden, yet another secret. But this one he shares. 

I share it as well as I step outside, the air cold enough to make my breath steam, barely clear enough to let a few star shine down on us from between the clouds, a few glints of moonlight breaking through around them. " _Ma serannas,_ " I tell Blackwall too, and I feel warm despite the chill. "Thank you." 

"You are most welcome." His arm tightens a little beneath my own, and our hips shift until our strides are almost matched, our pace slow and steady. It is dry tonight, and quiet, and we neither of us add to it, only the sound of our footsteps against the stones laid in the path, and a hint of wind somewhere beyond the buildings, a lonely whisper through the trees, searching for something to catch upon, to tell it all its stories, to share everything it has seen in its travels. 

I do not think I could bear any stories beyond my own, tonight, so I am glad it does not find us. 

It does not take us long, and I am tired enough to not mind, just this once, that they have housed me behind solid stone, so different than a camp or an _aravel_. Blackwall steps back, his fingers lingering against mine before he lets go of my arm, and then he bows in truth this time, and I think there must be a message there, in the line of his back and arms, that is too human for me to decipher. His hand shifts, a motion that fails to fit in with the rest, as if he was going to do something else, something more, _reach out and touch_ , but stopped himself before it happened. "I wish you sweet dreams, my lady." 

He is gone, back down the hill, before I can think of an answer, before I can decide if I hope more that he is right, or Solas, if I would rather something sweet, or the simple rest of silence, warm and dark through the night. 

The wind finds me, at last, spiraling around my legs, trying to pull at my hair, and I realize I can, at least, give him his wish back. "Sweet dreams, Blackwall," I whisper, letting my words be carried as far as the breeze may desire, and slip inside at last to rest. 


End file.
